The Old Soldier
by Anthros Paxx
Summary: If you are not already familiar with the opening cinematic to Diablo II then please watch it can be found online.  I always wanted to know more about the only tavern patron who had the guts to fight the demons haunting the wanderer.  Please R&R.


The Old Soldier

The Old Soldier stared into his cup of ale. The torchlight in the tavern reflected his scarred grizzled features. His white whiskers clung to his chin like a layer of frost on an old leather glove. 'I need to scrape that off,' he thought, as he swirled the watery ale around breaking up the depressing image of his face. Sitting across from him in a fur vest reeking of horse dung was his companion the cart driver. They had been hired by the tavern owner to bring supplies to this remote Inn. This was the third time they had made the trip for little danger and less money. On the second trip he had noticed a small pack of wolves that seemed to follow them for a few miles before becoming bored with the pair. It was not that the man was looking for danger especially at his age. But miles upon miles of frozen landscape with only the smell of the horses and his companion's drunken ramblings would have even the most timid of men seeking more. Now, two nights rest at this hole which passed for a tavern and a few coins in his pocket was his 'great' reward. The Old Soldier had one other option open to him which he did not want to consider as it reeked of a 'settled' job. He had run into his old mercenary friend who he had helped train some fifteen winters past. After a few ales the merc revealed that he had taken over command since the demise of the previous leader. He felt the new lads needed a heavy hand as they had become soft over the years and every campaign brought more pathetic men through his door. Many did not last through the first battle and those that did constantly whined about the food and accommodations. He felt that the old soldier would be able to train the new recruits in the art of 'hard living and real killing,' as he used to say. He would have his own quarters and would eat the same rations as the rest of the company. A small stipend for drink and 'other entertainments,' would be provided every week. This job meant no more fighting. He would be training men to fight and kill but he would finally have to admit to himself that his killing days were over. Now, with the offer less than a year old, he sat, staring at the pock marked face of his smelly companion thinking about how much ale it would take before his bones stopped aching. His tavern bills were increasing every year. Lost in these thoughts the old man glanced up as the door to the tavern opened and HE walked in.

At first he thought the cloaked man was drunk. He staggered in slowly dragging his sword behind him. The old soldier started to think maybe he was injured as the man slumped into a chair. This tavern high in the mountains only seemed to attract those at the fringes of civilization. The old man did not want to dwell on this as he, himself, was a patron and tried to focus on the exotic music being played in the back. A loud "THUNK" brought his attention back to the strange man. The sword had been planted firmly in the wooden floor and the hand that planted it there was shaking furiously. "He WAS a damn drunk!" the old man thought. This confirmation of his first impressions struck him as very funny and he could not help as loud laughter erupted from the very bowels of his belly fuelled by the ale. He chuckled even more as the hooded figure tried to stop his hand from shaking by clutching it in his other. The tormented man knocked a table over then fell to his hands and knees and the old soldier stopped laughing as he thought: 'Bring him a drink already, he's not well!' Then he heard a sound like a furnace being fed. He looked at the brazier near the man and saw it flare up dangerously. This seemed to coincide with a great inhuman scream that erupted from the stricken figure. As his scream decreased the apparitions began to appear. Little fire balls seemed to erupt from the braziers rolling across the ground, or were they running? The old man shook his head and rubbed his eyes as he could not believe what he was seeing. The balls of flames had legs! They were running spreading the fire throughout the tavern. Slug like creatures soon followed crawling toward the scattered patrons with a vengeance. The old soldier looked for his sword resting in its scabbard just under the table. Reaching out with a shaking hand he withdrew his faithful weapon of many years. Watching the chaos unfold he downed the rest of his ale with relish, savouring the taste of the tepid liquid and relishing the feel as it slid down his throat. This, thought the old man, might be his last drink and damn all the powers in the land, if he was not going to enjoy it! The main brazier in the centre of the room erupted into a massive pillar of flame. This was too much for his companion who ran to the back away from the heat. The soldier was entranced. What hell had been unleashed on this desolate hole, what demons had chosen to haunt this dangerous stranger? As if on cue skeletal heads began to rise from the flames. The lead creature leapt from the flames sword in hand and set his hollow stare on the old man. 'This is it.' He thought. 'I will fight this deathless thing like the man and the soldier I have always claimed to be.' The old soldier leapt upon the table sword in hand. 'Come on you skinny bastard!' he thought. 'Let's see if you can die again!' The skeleton charged the old man and swung with inhuman strength. The soldier met its first attack with a strong parry of his own; the table had the height advantage but was unsteady so he used the momentum of the first blow to land as steady as he could muster in front of his inhuman adversary. The demon thing swung again, and again a parry was found, but the strength of this creature was too much. The old man mustered a quick counter but was easily parried and the deathless grin seemed to get a bit wider as the skeletal hands feinted just slightly and the very real sword found its target deep in the old soldier's gut. As the old man slid to the ground the skeletal figure looked down for a moment and quickly clacked away to another unfortunate target. The old man lay dying on the wooden floor. The smell of stale booze and brimstone filled his nostrils. This ancient mercenary had not lived so long without a few tricks up his sleeve. As he attempted to keep his guts in with one hand he slowly found the small clay vial tied to his belt with the other. He fumbled with the straps and managed to free the container. With a shaking hand and white spots swimming in his eyes he knew he only had seconds. He bit the wax stopper off and with the last of his remaining strength he poured the healing elixir into his mouth. For a split second he thought his taste buds had betrayed him as the vile tasting liquid was almost reflexively spit up in its entirety. He managed, just, to choke down the putrid fluid. For a moment he cursed the 'healer' he had purchased it from. But then, there was a twisting in his stomach. The feeling was as if his insides were being rearranged with a white hot poker and he could not help himself as a low deep groan of pain erupted from his throat. He lay on his back feeling the fire spreading around him as he slowly turned his head. He watched as the hooded stranger began to make his way out, sword dragging behind him the same as when he arrived. Then, following close behind, the old man noticed a trembling, thin man following behind clinging to himself as if trying to wake from a dream.

The old soldier watched the tavern burn to the ground. He sat huddled on the cart, wrapped in the fur vest taken from the corpse of the carter who, just hours ago, had been his companion, drunk and smelly but very much alive at the time. He took another swig from the small barrel of ale he had rolled out from the kitchen. He burned himself real good to get it but could not face the prospect of a long journey without something to keep him sane. Most of his gear was in his leather satchel which he managed to drag out with him. He looked east and grimaced. The footprints from the two men were still fairly fresh in the snow. The old soldier looked west in the direction of the mercenary camp where a 'steady' job waited, training snot nosed bastards how to be men. The old man took another swig of the watery beer and spit some back in the snow. He looked at the burnt out remains of the building with the charred lumps of what used to be men lying among the embers. 'Life is short.' He thought. 'There will be my kind of work where that dark stranger goes and I mean to pick up some of it. Besides, you can't teach someone how to be a soldier or a man. Those lessons are best learnt by putting one foot in front of the other.'

As the sun rose three sets of footprints could be seen in the early morning snow. The tracks were heading towards the east….always east.


End file.
